by Paul Holler
Driving home through a powerless night, tracing the night hawk’s gyre, the car follows the road’s decreasing arc. Darkness flows like clouds of ink, blotting out buildings, streetlights, time. Turning sharply into the parking lot, the car stops. In the middle of the headlight’s ken sits a fox, claws ensheathed, teeth concealed, head raised, ears erect, eyes unblinking. Beside the fox lies a bloodied and lifeless rabbit. The car waits. The fox keeps his place. The car creeps forward. The fox sits unmoved. The car circles the parking lot and the fox follows it with his eyes. The car slips into its space. The fox rises quietly to his feet. His grey silhouette stands fixed and unyielding, silently crying out, “What are you doing in my time and my darkness?”
The sun rises, the power returns, the buildings reappear. A breeze-ruffled scrap of fur remains clinging to the pavement, unnoticed and almost unseen.
Paul Holler is a writer of short stories and an occasional journalist on literary topics. His short stories, articles and interviews with noted authors have appeared in The Copperfield Review, Eclectica, The Southern Cross Review, Skylark, Critique Magazine, Bookslut and Conversations with Jay Parini. His current project is a series of imagined episodes in the life of Aesop, several of which have appeared in The Southern Cross Review.